[ Even Kimiko isn't sure why she decided to check out the murder at the barbershop. It isn't like she was some keen investigator back home. She was the muscle, a crutch for men otherwise surviving on ordinary genes, their wits, and a bloody crusade. Maybe it was because of the cruelty of it all. Factions warring for a payout or, worse, ideology tend to leave more dead bystanders than anything.
For most of her life, she's seen it, by being on one side or the other. Never in the middle.
It's an emotion to pick through. She's had a lot of those lately, so left alone with her thoughts.
What was it detectives on TV always say? The guilty can't help but return to the scene of the crime. They want to admire their handiwork. Having tucked herself away in a little nook when she heard the back door being pried open, she studies the silhouette of broad shoulders, the cloying scents lingering on him hours or weeks after they should be relevant — pine needles, booze, metal. The mirrors lining the walls of the barbershop give her an even better angle. He looks like any other fluxdrift: weathered by poverty and desperation, built back up to survive. Hasn't she seen coats similar to his on local gang affiliates? When he starts to rifle through the desk, her eyes widen.
She's cracked the case, she thinks. Either he did it or he knows something. One of the two.
Across the floor, she moves as silently as the Shining Light taught her, her body kept low and her movements animalistic. If she can get close, she'll aim to bring him down with a single punch to the side; but pulled, her impossible strength held in reserve, because she wants to incapacitate and question. Not blow his intestines out through the other side. ]
no subject
For most of her life, she's seen it, by being on one side or the other. Never in the middle.
It's an emotion to pick through. She's had a lot of those lately, so left alone with her thoughts.
What was it detectives on TV always say? The guilty can't help but return to the scene of the crime. They want to admire their handiwork. Having tucked herself away in a little nook when she heard the back door being pried open, she studies the silhouette of broad shoulders, the cloying scents lingering on him hours or weeks after they should be relevant — pine needles, booze, metal. The mirrors lining the walls of the barbershop give her an even better angle. He looks like any other fluxdrift: weathered by poverty and desperation, built back up to survive. Hasn't she seen coats similar to his on local gang affiliates? When he starts to rifle through the desk, her eyes widen.
She's cracked the case, she thinks. Either he did it or he knows something. One of the two.
Across the floor, she moves as silently as the Shining Light taught her, her body kept low and her movements animalistic. If she can get close, she'll aim to bring him down with a single punch to the side; but pulled, her impossible strength held in reserve, because she wants to incapacitate and question. Not blow his intestines out through the other side. ]